Four Notes
by TheGirlOnFire29
Summary: When young Rue is thrust into the Hunger Games, she finds herself desperately fighting for her life. Though underestimated by the other tributes at first, Rue soon discovers that size doesn't always matter and that she just might survive after all.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

_Run. I must run._

_That is my only choice._

_I speed off towards the forest, the trees beckoning me with their wide arms and feathery leaves. Behind me, I can hear the first cries of despair as the tributes confront each other at the Cornucopia. _

_I jump at the nearest tree I can reach, climbing higher and higher until I was safely concealed in its branches. _

_This is good, I tell myself. _

_I hop easily from tree to tree, working my way deeper and deeper into the forest._

_No one will find me, I tell myself. _

_I'm going to be safe._


	2. District 11

CHAPTER 1: DISTRICT 11

My parents tell me I've always been a climber. I would scare them to death, disappearing into the tall trees that populate our district. There was something so comforting about being enveloped in their leaves, as if I was in another world. Trees are loyal. They hold you and protect you and listen to you.

In school they teach us that District 11 is the largest of all, and the most beautiful. I've never been anywhere else other than here but it is hard to imagine a more appealing landscape. Not even the shiny Capitol with its tall buildings and colorful people can compare to our home. The earth is covered in green. Green in the lush grass and the canopy of the trees and in the ivy that covers our house. But most importantly, green is in the fields.

Our district it the furthest south, which explains why we are the agriculture district. All year long, the sun is shining and the grass is growing. No snow or coldness or bitterness. Just warmth and sunshine and green.

District 11 is covered in fields. They stretch throughout our land, the rich, fertile soil providing a good home for all our crops. The crops are not the only ones who live in the field.

The inhabitants of my district work the entire day, leaving before the sun rises and coming home long after it sets. I see them bent over in the fields, tending to the crops that they know they will never eat. As ironic as it sounds, the people who live in the agriculture district are always hungry. We work for the Capitol, not for ourselves. We grow their food year after year. We see the rich, sweet corn and the juicy, fat tomatoes. We know the Capitol people eat well every day, a full plate of food for each meal. We work hard, to the death even, to provide them with food. And every night, we come home to a house full of empty stomachs and piece of hard, stale bread if we're lucky.

Yes, my district may seem beautiful at first glance. People may envy us. They long for everlasting warmth and clear skies and lush, green scenery. But they don't know what's beneath the surface. Hollow eyes and ragged faces. Fatigued bodies and starvation. This is the ugly truth of our district, the harsh reality.


	3. Birthday Girl

CHAPTER 2: BIRTHDAY GIRL

Twelve years old is a big year. It means new hardships and more challenges. In our district, you start working in the fields at the age of twelve. We've learned that in other districts, children don't have to start working until much later. But District 11 needs all the help it can get for the crops. There are thousands of people in our district, but we always need more. At the age of twelve you are expected to stop school and start working in the fields. However, twelve years old doesn't just signify getting a job. Twelve years old signifies the beginning of the seven most terrifying years of your life. From twelve to eighteen, you live your life in fear, dreading that one cursed day that occurs every year. This is a fear shared throughout the districts, a fear that we are all familiar with.

Twelve years old means that you are now eligible to be entered in the Hunger Games.

xXx

"Wake up birthday girl!" my mother sings, ruffling my hair. She's smiling and seemingly excited. She is good at lying. "It's a big day today!" she says in a happy voice. I smile, playing along.

I wonder if she knows that I can see the sadness in her eyes.

I get dressed in my normal clothing: a simple white shirt and denim pants. My mother insists on fixing my hair with a pretty pink ribbon. My five younger siblings are joyous today, unaware of the distress that I share with my parents. Breakfast is a pleasant surprise; my father was able to sneak some fruits out of the fields. He claims that he traded with the Peacekeepers for them using a few of the figures he carves from wood. But I see the mischievous glint in his eyes, and I know that he took these from the field.

Taking crops home is forbidden and punishable by death. We've seen it too many times. You can't just put hundreds of starving people into a field of food and expect them not to take some. The Peacekeepers are extremely strict on that rule. They inspect people one by one as they leave the fields, making sure they aren't trying to take anything with them.

I bite into a sweet grape, one of the many different fruits my father was able to acquire. I look at him in awe, wondering how he was able to secure all these goods. He winks at me, and I know that he will teach me his secrets once I start working in the fields. At least that's one thing I can look forward to.

After my siblings leave for school, my parents each grab a hold of my hands and we start making our way to the Justice Building. The streets are empty; a layer of mud and grime permanently caked onto all the houses. My parents and I walk in silence, clutching onto each other as if our lives depended on it.

The Justice Building is a sorry sight. Its once-white marble is now a dull and lifeless grey. Ivy has swallowed the beautiful façade, making it look like an abandoned house.

We stop at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the building. "Ready?" my father asks, trying to keep his voice steady. My mother, on the other hand, looks like she is about to cry.

"Ready," I say, giving them both a reassuring squeeze.

The inside of the Justice Building is boring. The lobby is empty except for a woman sitting at the reception desk. She looks up warily as she hears us approaching.

"Can I help you?" she asks in an uninterested tone. I feel immediate hatred towards her. Her she is, sitting in a comfortable chair and protected with a roof over her head while others are outside breaking their backs in the scorching sun, and she's unhappy? If she only knew how many would kill to have her job, to not have their bodies covered in mud and their skin burnt from the sun.

"It's my twelfth birthday today," I say in a strong voice, glaring at her.

She raised her eyebrows at me, an amused smile threatening to form on her lips. "Well happy birthday then," she says, handing me a form. My mother gently takes it from my hands and proceeds to fill it out.

The lady hands me a small slip of paper. "Why don't you write your name on this and go drop it in the ball," she says, a hint of sadness in her voice. I know she feels sorry for me, and I am thankful for that. I carefully write out my name in my neatest print, struggling to keep my hand steady. When I am done, I hold the slip in my hands, realizing that it could be cause of my death. I stare at my father helplessly, unsure of what to do next.

The look on his face makes me want to cry. It makes me want to climb up a tree and go all the way to the clouds. To a place where it's soft and safe, somewhere I can stay forever. Somewhere where I never have to see his face contain so much pain and torment. He quickly adjusts his expression when he sees the distress in my eyes and nods towards the big glass balls in center of the room. When I refuse to move, frozen in place, he gently takes my hand and leads me to one of the balls.

The huge glass sphere glistens underneath the lights, almost giving the illusion that it was sparkling. It was halfway full with slips of white paper identical to the one in my hands. I stared at the slips with sadness. Each one was a precious life, a familiar face, possibly even a friend.

"It's only your first year honey," my father says reassuringly, as if he was reminding himself. "You're not going to get picked."

I cling to his words, repeating them over and over in my head. _I'm not going to get picked. I'm not going to get picked._ Each step I take towards the glass ball feels like a shock of electricity being shot through my body. My breathing speeds up, and then stops altogether. I hold my breath as I stop in front of the glass ball, its very presence rendering me speechless.

And then, even though everything inside me is screaming at me to run away, I hold my trembling hand over the glass ball, the slip of paper shaking like a leaf in my palm. _This is my life. I'm holding my life in the palm of my hand and I can't let go. I must not let go._

I stand there for what seems like an eternity before I flip my hand over, the slip slowly floating into the ball. It lands silently among the other slips.

And just like that, I've let go of my life. Let it slip right through my fingers, and into the malignant hands of the Capitol.


	4. A Song

CHAPTER 3: A SONG

District 11 has had numerous victors from the Hunger Games. I see them, walking around the Victor's Village, their stomachs full and their bodies well rested. It's hard not to loathe them, not to envy them for living such an easy life. But I know that any life in the districts is not easy.

My parents seem more at ease once we leave the Justice Building. They talk excitedly about what we'll eat at dinner and how we'll celebrate my birthday. I try to act happy, to smile along with them. But my hands feel empty, too empty, without the slip in them.

Dinner is amazing. My father had been gathering crops from the field intermittently over a few days, and we had before us a spread of corn, tomatoes, eggplants, and berries. My father says he would've gotten something bigger, like a pumpkin, but it would be impossible not to get caught.

The next morning I rise early, earlier than my siblings. I join my parents at the breakfast table, nibbling on a few berries left over from last night. They no longer try to put on a brave front, no longer try to act excited or happy.

"Just remember," my father says firmly, "always listen to the Peacekeepers. Never upset them. Follow the rules."

"They'll start you off easy," my mother reassures us all. "Just don't overwork yourself on the first day, OK sweetie?"

We start off towards the fields, my heart beating faster and faster in my chest. I see other families dragging themselves out of their houses, dreading the long day ahead of them. My father kisses me goodbye and makes his way to work. He has the hardest job: planting new fields. All day long he works to prepare the soil and plant the seeds.

My mother takes me up to the Head Peacekeeper's office, knocking on the door tentatively. It swings open and tall, tough man is standing on the other side. He frowns, unhappy to be disturbed so early in the morning.

"What?"

"It's her first day today," my mother says, avoiding eye contact with the sinister man.

The Peacekeeper takes me in, noticeably disappointed with my small frame. He towers over me, and I look at him straight in the eye.

"Orchards," he huffs, nodding towards them. "Have fun," he says mockingly, slamming the door shut.

My mother's face relaxes. "Oh, that's not so bad Rue! The orchards are beautiful! Lots of fruits and berries. More importantly, lots of shade." She escorts me to the orchards. Before entering, there is a checkpoint where a Peacekeeper stands, holding a list of names in her hands.

My mother helps me fill out the form for newcomers, and I watch the people start filing in for work. The orchards are filled with women and children, too fragile to work in the more challenging fields. During harvest time, they gather the apples and berries and other fruits that grow here. I feel relieved, knowing that the orchards are the easiest choice.

After handing over the form, the Peacekeeper pulls out my hand. I freeze once I see her take out a terrifying contraption from a bag. "Don't move," she says harshly. She shoves the needle into my skin, and I grit my teeth, holding my breath.

"What's that?" I have the nerve to ask. She ignores my question, motioning for me to move along so she could talk to the people in line behind me.

"It's a special device that they insert into your skin," my mother says, pulling me aside. "They've designed the fields so that no one can escape from them. If you try to run away during work hours, that thing in your arm will send electric shocks through your body."

I understand now. The chip in my arm must work with some special wiring around the fields that causes it to shock me when I cross the boundary. We never learned about this in school.

"Don't worry," my mother says, stroking my hair. "You'll be fine. It's not so bad." The skin around her eyes crinkle up when she smiles.

I hug her tightly, afraid to let go. When I finally do, she stands up and gives my hand a final squeeze. I turn around, trying to act brave as I entered the orchards.

They had prepped us in school for the fields. Our entire life we've been learning about the fields. I knew all about the types of fields and the jobs in them. I walked around the orchards, marveling at the beauty of the trees around me. I longed to climb in them, to perch on the highest branches and see the entire world.

"Get to work," a Peacekeeper says gruffly, prodding me in the back with the butt of his gun.

I stumble forward, grabbing onto the tree in front of me for support. School did not prepare me for this either.

The day passes by blurrily, like my vision was clouded with fog. I aimlessly wandered the orchards, tending to the fruits and harvesting those that were ripe. I met lots of new people, but no one was really up to talking. They moved stoically around the orchards, their backs hunched over and their hands caked in dirt.

After what seemed like years, the sun finally started to set, sending pink and orange streaks across the sky. I gasped, watching as the colors melted into each other and danced around the heavens. I couldn't stand it. I had to see more.

I found a tall tree in the orchard and swiftly climbed up its branches. Climbing was like second nature to me. I was one with the tree as I maneuvered my way to the topmost branches in a matter of seconds. I precariously perched on the thin branches, staring in wonder at the sky above me.

_The day's almost over,_ I tell myself, smiling. _I can go home!_

Suddenly I see a movement in the orchards below me. The Peacekeepers are hoisting up the flags. The bright white pieces of fabric flutter in the cool breeze, signaling the end of another day. I squeal with glee, happy to be able to go home.

Around me, the others in the field don't see the flag. I am the highest, so I can see everything that happens.

_I have to let them know that work is over. _

Suddenly, four notes pop into my head. Four beautiful, familiar notes. I hum it to myself softly, savoring the sound. I hear a rustle in the branches beside me and a mockingjay hops out to greet me. It cocks its head side to side, begging me to sing more. I repeat the notes again, this time singing louder. The bird stares intently at me, and when it realizes there is no more, it sings out the melody. Its voice resounds throughout the orchards, immediately triggering other mockingjays to follow.

Soon, the fields are alive with the beautiful melody. The notes dancing around just like the sunset. People look up with amazement, noticing me in the trees. I point to the flag, and they smile with relief.

I shimmy my way down the tree and join the crowd of people lining up to exit the orchards. They look at me with fondness, some of them even patting me on the shoulder.

"That's a beautiful song, girl," a woman compliments, grabbing my hand. "It's such a lovely way to end the day."


	5. The Reaping

CHAPTER 4: The Reaping

The days fly by quickly as I get used to working in the orchards. I learn more and more about the different plants and fruits we grow. I am astounded by the different uses of plants. The adults show me healing plants, and I memorize them all.

One time, another kid who was working with me in the orchards disturbed a tracker jacker as he was gathering fruit, and it stung him right on his neck. Remembering all I had learned, I quickly treated him with a few of the healing leaves that I always had with me. Tracker jacker nests were common around here, and you can spare the worst of the hallucinations if you tend to the sting right away.

As I grow more familiar to the orchards, I find myself loving it. The sweet scent of fruits and berries, the rich canopy of the tallest trees, the soft mud beneath my feet. But what I love most is climbing the trees and watching the world below me. I feel like I am one with the birds.

Everyday, I sing my four notes. The mockingjays respond without hesitations. It has become a symbol of hope, my four notes. They signify the ending of another day, the time when we can finally rejoin our loved ones in the safety of our homes.

But life is not this easy. And the other dangers of being twelve are always present in my mind. But I've tucked them away, hidden them so they would not bother me.

Today, they come out again. They dance around in my mind, refusing to go away.

Today it is Reaping day.

xXx

Our square is never occupied. The old, abandoned shops around them have given up business. No one has money to buy anything.

Today, the square is full of people. Peacekeepers march around in their crisp uniforms, making sure everyone is well behaved. Banners are hung from the Justice Building, mimicking the festive mood the Capitol has for the Games. Anastasia Flavika, our district's escort from the Capitol, stands on stage, rehearsing for today's performance.

I nervously tug on my dress as I enter the square. My feet feel tight and confined in these shoes. We never wear shoes here.

The square is not large enough to hold the entire population. All the children whose names are in the Reaping Bowl stand in neat formations while everyone else watches from home. I quickly find the twelve year olds. We stand nearest to the stage, shaking and quivering in our uncomfortable shoes. I recognize the girl next to me.

"Daisy?" I ask tentatively. She whips her head in my directions, her eyes full of fear.

"Rue!" she exclaims, grabbing my hand tightly. She was my classmate at school, and we often talked to each other during lunch. "I'm so scared," she whispers, her voice shaking.

I squeeze her hand, "Our names are only in there once," I say, echoing my father. She nods her head.

"Welcome, welcome," the mayor says into the microphone. The chairs on the stage behind him hold our two most recent female and male tributes as well as Anastasia. "We are all gathered here today to celebrate the choosing of two tributes that will represent our district in the Hunger Games," he says with a forced smile. The cameras are all trained on his face.

He goes through the usual routine, the whole time managing to maintain a happy tone. I know he's just as miserable as the rest of us though, because his three kids are all in the crowd today.

He hands over the microphone to Anastasia, who claps her hands excitedly. "Oh, I just love the Hunger Games, don't you?" she asks us, her voice bubbly.

The crowd is so silent you could hear a pin drop.

"Yes, well, we should move along with the festivities! It's time to see who the lucky two will be this year!"

Every one stares at her with such hatred that I'm surprised she is able to keep smiling and laughing. I wince at the word _lucky_. Since when does being thrust into an arena, forced to kill other kids and fight for your life considered lucky?

"Ladies first, then!" Anastasia flounces over to one of the glass balls, her fingers bouncing in anticipation. She shoves her bright orange arm into the ball, feeling the slips with her fingers. My heart beats louder and louder, threatening to explode any second. She comes up with a slip, holding it triumphantly in the air.

The crowd is silent.

She makes her way to the center of the stage, leaning towards the microphone as she unfolds the slip. "And the female tribute for district eleven is…"

Not me. Not me. Not me. I grasp Daisy's hand tighter, afraid to let go.

"Rue!" she finally says, a pleased look on her face.

My breathing stops, caught in my throat. I look up at her helplessly, frozen in place.

Not me. Not me. Not me.

Daisy lets of my hand gently, trying not to cry. She squeezes my shoulder. And then it hits me like a ton of bricks. My vision gets blurry as I feel the tears coming, feel the burning sensation in my chest.

It's me.

I am going to the Hunger Games.


End file.
